Memories of the Dead ManYou are done for—a living dead man—not when you stop loving but stop hating. Hatred preserves: in it, in its chemistry, resides the mystery of life.
—E.M. Cioran, The New Gods
You ask me of the Dead Man. What kind of man was he?
Good question. But not the right one.
Some call him a murderer, a cold-blooded killer—or worse. Some call him a hero. Jase and I made it through those days only by his hand in our lives, so you’d think I’d know where I stand on that one.
But even after thirty years, I’m still not sure.
I had dreams once, beyond living another day, but they’d died when I was twenty, died with my husband and daughter in the Plague. For ten years after that, I did what I had to, to feed Jase and me, to survive. That meant taking what we needed and staying
